


The Cross-Country Raid

by Murasaki99



Category: Rat Patrol
Genre: Arabian Horses, Desert trek, Gen, Horses, how it started
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:27:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26171170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Murasaki99/pseuds/Murasaki99
Summary: When Captain Dietrich needs to deliver critical medicine to his replacement troops, he decides the only way to get it there safely is by trekking across the desert on his little Arabian mare.  Of course, the Rat Patrol figures he'll be easy pickings, him on a horse and them on their jeeps.  The race is on!The Cross-Country Raid was previously published in Just Deserts 2, 1987, Ann Wortham, editor.
Comments: 39
Kudos: 20





	1. Handful of Southern Wind

“Penicillin. The Allies’ miracle drug. I need it.”

“Hans! You're sick?! You don't look ill... a wee bit thin perhaps, but that's not surprising all things considered.” 

The second speaker looked up from the pages of a journal at her visitor, pen paused in midair. 

Captain Hans Dietrich of the Afrika Korps hastened to give a further explanation before Shannon MacLlyr, Ph.D., could follow her erroneous deduction any further.

“The drug is not for my use. There is a detachment of the army composed in the main of replacements from Germany encamped at a safe distance. They are—or were—originally bound for my unit. Their doctor radioed us for assistance. It seems some of the recruits have contracted a bacterial infection. It appears to be deadly. Several of the men have already died. Many of the rest have either fallen ill or are sickening. The doctor reports sulfa drugs have only a palliative effect. He urges we supply him with penicillin, which he claims is the only effective agent against such infections.”

Carefully, Dietrich laid his dusty cap atop a stack of MacLlyr’s references. With his thumb he began absently rubbing at the layer of salty grime that frosted his goggles.

“The soldiers," he continued. "Are very young. By my standards many of them are still children.” He met the doctor's steady gaze, his brown eyes holding a pained anger. 

“I grow weary of watching my men die. I will not stand idly by and see them fall to disease... the war is bad enough. You can help me save their lives."

“My good man, you know I'm no medical doctor, I'm an ethnologist. I take notes on tribal customs, write books, and sometimes I do a little farrier-work for our horses, but that is about my limit," countered MacLlyr. “I'm not the sort to carry rare drugs about in my pockets.”

“You have friends who are physicians, however. That doctor with Red Cross ...Sorenson. Surely the Red Cross have a supply? Or the Allies? I'll take it from them if I must." Dietrich looked ready to go raiding on the instant.

“Enough, enough, you are right.” She held up her hands in surrender. “I do have many friends, in odd places. It's one of the advantages of having lived here for years. And some of those friends may, just _may_ be able to procure some penicillin for an Irish neutral in need. Assuming I do get this drug in sufficient quantity and give it to you, what will you do then? Are the stricken troops near?”

Dietrich relaxed a measure, put his hands behind his back, and made a study of the ceiling for several moments before replying.

“Well, no. Actually, they are well-removed from this area. Behind Allied lines, in truth. They were originally behind our lines, but the situation changes very quickly in desert warfare and at the moment that entire section of Cyrenaica is in the hands of the British and their friends. Next week or next month it will be ours again, in all probability. I do not intend to put my entire company at risk in the attempt to deliver the drug. I shall begin devising a plan today. By the time you have the drug, I should have a solution.” He smiled slightly at MacLlyr. 

“I have become much improved at planning in haste. Of course, I have had excellent teachers.” _The Rat Patrol had their uses after all_ , he mused.

Shannon rose, running a hand through her short mane of red hair. During the span of time she had known him, Hans Dietrich had become a highly regarded friend to the researcher. His cat-and-mouse games with the Allies, and the Rat Patrol in particular, worried her. His profession was not the sort to inspire visions of longevity. Still, she had to admit that Dietrich's occupation was his by choice, nor would she have forced a change on him if she could. MacLlyr refused to interfere in matters of honor and duty. She understood those ties only too well, as her own people had some that were millennia old. Sighing, she let the uncharacteristic bit of worry go.

Lifting her desert robe from the back of her chair, Shannon wrapped herself in its folds as she moved toward the door. Pausing at the threshold she said, "Expect me when you see me, Hans Dietrich. This may take some time."

Flashing him a sudden grin, MacLlyr stepped into the resurgent evening crowds of the town of Qasr al Burayqah. By the time the captain had retrieved his hat and followed, the Irishwoman was nowhere to be seen.

\---

Dietrich stood in the gloom of the stable, allowing his eyes to adjust from the glare of the fierce desert sun. His Arabian mare, Sekhmet, had her head and neck over the door of her stall and she nickered in welcome. From the stall directly opposite came the deeper tones of her son, Typhon. The black stallion's head appeared in the doorway, small ears pricked forward in interest.

The captain rubbed the black's nose in passing. A minute later he led the mare out into the courtyard formed by the whitewashed walls of the old stable. Holding the end of her halter rope, he paced back and forth, considering his horse with an uncharacteristically serious expression. To his eyes she was small.

She was a gift from MacLlyr and six months of ownership had not changed her height. Compared to the hulking Trakehner he'd left in Germany, the slender Arabian's 15 hands made her seem more like a yearling filly than a mature mare of 14. He smiled to himself at the memory of Shannon's words at his initial comment on Sekhmet's lack of height.

“Small is she? Mark my words, Hans Dietrich. Kuhailan Sekhmet could carry you twice the distance your German horses could! She is Asil, of long lineage, and a warhorse born and bred. No other mount is braver or a more faithful companion. Out here, the horse is more than mere transportation, it is a gift from Allah and life itself. Would you care to walk the desert alone and un-companioned? Win her trust and respect, make her your partner. You will never regret it.”

She had a way with words, did Doctor MacLlyr. Dietrich pondered the information contained in past evenings of horse-talk with the doctor and from his own experiences in North Africa. The desert-bred Arabians were smart, swift, and capable of enduring much hardship. They could get by with less water and rations than the heavier European breeds. Better still, they were inured to the extremes of heat and cold found in their native lands. He knew for a fact that Sekhmet was considered by the local Bedouin clans to be a fine specimen of her breed. She was sound of wind and limb, and she now trusted him as her rider. 

Dietrich patted the red hide of her neck, ran his hands down her legs. The tendons had the feel of steel cables. Even as he checked his horse over, his mind was calculating, weighing the odds, benefits, and risks.

_Master Sergeant Gunther is holding the sick "boys" in a sheltered camp near Jalu oasis. They have only old trucks, one broken-down halftrack and no proper armor. I dare not openly send a convoy to their aid...if the Allies were to follow and find them, they could not defend themselves. Many of them are weak or sick and the rest are untried and green. God! This is no way to fight a war! What were they thinking of in Berlin, to send us such?_

_Jalu is inland in uncontested territory, so they are safe enough for the moment. I have no aircraft to send, nor do I wish to send anything my ‘friends’ the Rat Patrol could track. But a horse? Ah, that is something else entirely. What matters another set of horse tracks in the sand? Who would notice or care? The only risk would be to myself and my mount._

The captain spoke quietly to Sekhmet as he worked.

“Doctor MacLlyr claims your kind enjoy long journeys and the excitement of danger. Would you like to take a trip with me, perhaps?” The mare blew her breath warmly against his khaki shirt and regarded him expectantly from under her ebony forelock. “Good, good, I thought so. It is settled then; once the doctor returns we shall go, you and me.” 

“Go where?”

MacLlyr's voice came from the stable, startling him. For three days she had been gone; her reappearance was just as sudden as her departure. Recovering quickly, he turned toward her. 

“The drug...do you have it?” He concealed his anxiety under a layer of rigid outward calm.

“It took some doing, but yes, I managed to get it—and in a useful quantity, I believe.”

As Dietrich breathed a silent exhalation of relief, MacLlyr continued without skipping a beat. 

“Hans, please answer my original question if you would. Where are you going, you and Sekhmet? I imagine it is not for a pleasure outing.” 

“You are quite correct,” he said, brushing some nonexistent dust from the mare's forehead. "There is the matter of delivering the drug safely. You see, I cannot go in force and risk catching the attention of the Allies...”

He trailed off at MacLlyr’s expression of open dismay. 

“Hans Dietrich, are you telling me you intend to ride Sekhmet over 250 miles of mountains and desert? That... that’s a madness! Y’cannot be serious?”

“I am indeed, deadly serious. I have no choice,” he said, cutting Shannon off before she could begin her objections anew. 

“I cannot bring an escort, either of vehicles or horses. All must be done with a minimum of noise and fuss.” He fixed her with a dark, measuring stare. “Besides, you were the one who told me the desert-bred Arabian horses were routinely capable of covering great distances comfortably. Are you now saying they cannot?”

“Níl mé, I would not say that.” 

Her Gaelic accent grew stronger under stress, he noted.

MacLlyr patted Sekhmet’s neck and draped her arms over the mare’s back, resting her chin atop her folded arms. 

“She can go 100 miles a day, and keep up that sort of pace for days at a time with proper care.” Shannon addressed Dietrich, who stood on the other side of Sekhmet, “ ** _If_** you have the route properly planned and prepared. Think Hans, when she works so hard she will need good feed eventually. Then there is the matter of water. For both of you. You simply cannot carry enough to complete the entire journey.” She walked around the mare to face him. 

“Your course—do you have maps to show the best routes for a horse and the places to find water?” 

From a pocket of his tunic, Dietrich drew a standard Africa Korps map of Cyrenaica and from another pocket he produced a compass. These he proffered to MacLlyr with the air of an attorney offering exhibit A and exhibit B to the jury. She took the map, glanced at it, and wrinkled her nose in disgust. 

"Y’truly want to die, hey? Use this and I guarantee the vultures will be picking your bones in short order.” She scowled at him.

He regarded her impassively, struggling (with mixed success) to control a rush of amusement. 

“I have been using those tools for some time now without too many mishaps,” he said. “The only thing they cannot show me is the current position of the Rat Patrol.”

MacLlyr sighed.

“Very well. Attend to your preparations and I shall see if I cannot find something better to help you navigate this mad adventure alive. When do you intend to leave?”

“With the dawn tomorrow,” Dietrich said. “My preparations are almost complete.” Shannon nodded and began to move away in the direction of her house.

“Dawn. Of course. Why wait for the reaper?” she muttered to herself. Walking backward, she raised her voice. 

“I will meet you in the courtyard before you leave.”

She lifted her hands to the heavens. 

“Allah protect you!” Turning sharply, she stalked away.

The rest of her conversation was in Irish Gaelic, which Dietrich did not understand. The tone of the words made him just as glad he did not. He permitted himself a smile as he began checking Sekhmet's hooves for cracks. In spite of all the outward differences between himself and the Irish scholar, inside they were much alike and on that level they understood each other well enough.


	2. Upward and Onward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Captain Dietrich hits the dusty trail, unfortunately he has Rat Patrol company and a natural barrier in his way.

The first streaks of dawn were gilding the eastern sky when Dietrich and Sekhmet left Qasr al Burayqah and turned their noses toward their destination, the hill town of Maradah, the halfway point of their trek. 

On the verge of his camp, his aide and second in command, Lieutenant Maximilian Erhardt, watched him ride out of sight. Poor Erhardt had not been pleased to learn that his Hauptmann was leaving their main camp in his care to undertake a risky journey alone and he was even less pleased with Dietrich's strict order that Master Sergeant Gunther was not to be informed of his mission until later in the day. Within the bounds of military protocol, the Stabsfeldwebel was not one to mince words with a superior officer and Dietrich could just imagine what he'd have to say upon hearing the news of his captain's rescue mission. Dietrich chuckled at the thought. _It would do Max good_ , he decided, _to acquire experience in handling seasoned professionals like Gunther. Was I ever that green?_ The days of his youthful enthusiasm seemed long ages behind him. 

He drew in a deep lungful of air, consciously relaxing into the saddle and allowed his body to give to the rhythm of Sekhmet's gentle motions. The day promised to be bright and fiercely hot, but for now the morning was comfortable and they were making good time through the scrubby hills. He had full canteens of water, a map supplied by MacLlyr giving the locations of the tribal waterholes and wells _en route_ , a blanket, and rations for himself and the horse. In his saddlebags, heavily wrapped in cotton wool, reposed the bottles of the precious drug. 

Despite the gravity of his mission, Dietrich had to admit he was enjoying himself. At this point he had no one to be responsible for but his horse. It felt like a vacation. Responding to his mood, Sekhmet moved into a ground-eating canter and the pair of them soon blended into the hills. 

\---

“Sarge, can I ask a question?” called Private Hitchcock from behind the open hood of their jeep. 

"Sure, go ahead and shoot, Hitch," Sergeant Sam Troy replied from his position as lookout atop the steaming vehicle. He continued to scan the hills with his binoculars. 

“What in heck are we doing out here? Dietrich's camp is 40 miles back thataway and there's no sign of his packing up and moving out. There’s nothing out here but scrub, Arabs, rocks, and more scrub. Nobody bothers with the interior anyway. The coast is where the action is.” 

“Dietrich's up to something,” said Troy, still searching the hills. He broke off to gaze down at Hitch. His teeth flashed whitely in a quick grin. 

“Call it a hunch.” 

“I'll bank on your hunches any day,” said Moffitt from the second jeep. “I've learned, you never seem to go too far wrong.” 

“That hunch wouldn't happen to be from a friendly girl from that town by Dietrich's camp, would it?” Private Tully Pettigrew chipped in, chewing a matchstick. 

“Could be,” Troy said with a chuckle, returning to his scanning. 

From below his perch next to the .50 caliber gun, he heard Hitch finish watering the jeep's radiator and felt the machine rock as the hood was slammed shut. He raised his binoculars again and inspected yet another quadrant of sere hills. Perhaps two miles distant, the jags of the mountains, or rather, broken Libyan plateaus, began their skyward march. In his field of vision something moved. Troy focused on the object that had caught his attention: a man on horseback who had just crested a hill a mile away. The rider halted to look over the area.

“There! I knew it!” Troy grinned in triumph. “That man on the horse, that's no Arab! It's Dietrich...and he's alone!"

The captain’s features were clearly visible through the lenses.

The moment Troy spotted his quarry, he realized the captain must have become aware of them from his own vantage point, for he turned his horse's head and dashed for the mountains at a full gallop. 

“C'mon, let's shake it; he's making a run for those rocks!” Troy shouted to his team as he flung himself into the seat beside Hitch. 

The jeeps plunged down the hill in hot pursuit, crushing bracken and sending up plumes of dust. As they bounded over the next hill, Troy pointed as he caught sight of the captain, still a fair distance ahead and a little to their right. Hitch corrected his course and put on as much speed as the rough terrain would allow. Moffitt and Tully cruised a little behind and to their left, prepared to flank their prey when they came within range. 

As the chase proceeded, Troy saw they were gaining on Dietrich, but not nearly as quickly as he would have thought. The condition of the rocky soil worked to hold down their speed and the German's horse was running well, covering the ground with long, sure strides, its tail held high and flowing like a black banner in the wind.

Horse and rider checked their pace as they came up against the steep slopes of the mountains. 

The Rat Patrol was closing fast. Dietrich spared a quick glance over his shoulder at his pursuers, then leaned forward over his horse's neck. 

Much to Troy's surprise, the bay horse attacked the hillside and scrambled upward, scaling an incline fit for an antelope or gazelle. Its ears were laid back and it presented a picture of equine determination. The captain stood up in the stirrups and balanced far over its neck, assisting the climb by distributing his weight in the most advantageous fashion. By the time the Patrol had reached the mountain slope, Dietrich was out of sight. The only sign of his presence being the echoed sounds of his horse's hooves and the occasional scrabble of loose stones. 

The jeeps ground to a halt.

“Why're you stopping, Hitch? He's getting away!” Troy pointed upward.

Hitch rolled his eyes at the steep pitch of the hillside. A few bits of rock and scree bounced down from above.

“Sarge, in case you hadn't noticed, these jeeps can't fly, an' they can't grow legs and walk up walls like that horse... I'm not even sure how Dietrich’s horse did it!” 

“I'm afraid we'll have to go 'round, Troy,” Moffitt called as they pulled up alongside.

"This area is far too rocky and steep for our jeeps. There are no passes here, either,” Moffitt added helpfully. 

“Ah, that's just great!” growled Troy in frustration, glaring at the Englishman. “You're telling me we can't catch Dietrich, him on a horse an' us with our jeeps?!”

Moffitt smiled a little in spite of Troy's irritation. 

“It's not that we can't, Troy ...only that we can't do it _here_. We shall have to go around this range of hills. There is another set of old mountains behind this one, with only one pass through. The alternative is a 50-mi1e trip to the next passage. We can beat Dietrich to the pass if we hurry, and catch him there.” 

He spared a glance at the path traversed by the German officer and smiled. 

“I must say I'm rather impressed. From the looks of the beast, I'd say that our friend Dietrich has managed to get himself a desert-bred Kuhailan, and in that case he has the advantage in terrain like this.” 

Troy snorted.

“C’mon, Moffitt. A horse is a horse, what's the difference?” 

“Quite a bit, actually,” he said. Why do you think no one has successfully conquered the Bedouin on their native ground? According to legend, Allah created the horse from a handful of the southern wind. It was the Prophet himself who commanded the people to breed their horses and to keep their blood pure, or _asil_. Among the Bedouin, it is quite common for the finest war-mare to dwell in her master’s tent and to be favored above his children.” 

"Always said those Arabs were crazy,” murmured Hitch to Tully. 

Moffitt spread out a map of the area over the hood of his jeep and indicated their trail with a finger. 

“If we take this route, we should reach the pass some time before sundown and well ahead of the Captain.”

Troy nodded his approval.

“Good enough. I want him, Moffitt, and I want him alive. He's got some cagey reason to be out here by himself, and I'm betting it's something of strategic importance. Maybe tactical plans, orders from Rommel, who knows? We need to find out what he's got.”

Troy gave his companions a tight smile. “Besides, if we take Dietrich prisoner, he'd be out of our hair for good, and that wouldn't bother me too much. Fair is fair, and this is too good a chance to pass up.” 

“Yep, that's true,” Tully agreed as he resumed his seat behind the wheel of his jeep. “Just do me a favor, Sarge?”

At Troy's quizzical look, he continued. 

“Don't shoot that little bay horse of his. I used to work some horse farms in Kentucky an' I know a good horse when I see it. I could clean up at the races with her.” 

There was general laughter all around and Troy's reply was lost in the roar of engines as the jeeps ground away in a cloud of dust.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes indeed, horses can scale mountains. Check out Cougar Rock, the hair-raising feature of the Tevis Cup endurance trail ride. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tevis_Cup
> 
> Dietrich's mare, Sekhmet, is a Kuhailan, which is a specific subset of what we now call the Arabian breed. They were bred for endurance. For an excellent example, see the photo of Witez II https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Witez_II, archived at Wikipedia, or check out Kuhailan Haifi, ancestor of many of our best modern Arabian horses. https://i.pinimg.com/originals/3b/6a/6f/3b6a6f4e2c203479a3e80e2722c4ac86.jpg


	3. Fly Without Wings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dietrich's cross-country endurance trail ride continues, with judging for form and function provided by the Rat Patrol.

Sekhmet topped the final rise, snorting at the narrow cleft in the sheer rocks which her rider’s map termed a ‘pass’. Squinting at the opening, Dietrich decided that if one drove carefully, there was perhaps room for a car or kubelwagen to thread the quarter-mile gap. Just. Of course, there was more than enough clear room for a horse, or a train of camels for that matter. The captain allowed his mare to rest for a few minutes and breathe.

It had been a taxing climb and he was glad to see the pass which marked the end of their uphill trek. The rest of the trail would be downhill, toward the flatter lands of the desert and the town of Marahdah. Then it would be an "easy" trek of 100 miles across the desert to Jalu. Beyond the pass would be water, and a place to rest in relative safety before the work of tomorrow. Dietrich stood in his stirrups, stretching his stiff legs before settling. _Rest will be welcome_ , he thought, _but first the pass_.

He lifted the reins and indicated to Sekhmet by a slight shifting of his center that he wished to enter the gorge. She obediently started forward, but slowly, very slowly, sniffing at the rocks and startling at every little sound. Dietrich did not try to rush her, being wary himself. The narrow canyon made a splendid natural trap and he proceeded with a sensation of prickling unease. 

A whoop of triumph caused him to startle violently. He made a belated grab at the reins as the mare reared, providing him with a very good view of at least two members of the Rat Patrol, who were advancing into the mouth of the pass behind him. They were toting rifles and shouting; the echoes rang in the narrow space. 

Dietrich cursed himself for a fool. _I should have known Troy and his men would not give up so easily_. Setting his teeth, he seized a handful of mane and dug his heels into Sekhmet’s sides. The Arabian spurted forward, charging deeper into the canyon. Dietrich spared a quick glance over his shoulder at his pursuers. While on horseback he could easily outdistance the men afoot, but why were they without their omnipresent jeep? As he turned his gaze forward again, the answer to that question became all too clear.

The end of the pass was perhaps 200 yards ahead and closing fast, when the second jeep pulled across and into the narrow outlet, effectively boxing Dietrich in. Troy's bush hat made a distinctive silhouette as he crouched behind the .50. The captain now realized that Sergeant Moffitt and Private Pettigrew had undoubtedly hidden their jeep well away from the entrance to their trap. 

Dietrich and Sekhmet were closing rapidly on the jeep. Over the echoed thunder of hoofbeats he heard Troy’s shout.

“Give it up, Captain!”

Staring into the swiftly approaching muzzle of the heavy machine gun, Dietrich decided with a stab of frustration that he would have to surrender ...at least for the moment. He pulled on the reins, signaling Sekhmet to halt.

Nothing happened. Dietrich quickly took a double-wrap of reins about his hands and pulled even harder.

They were now very close indeed, the rattling echo of hooves sounding like an entire cavalry brigade in the narrow space. The red mare showed no sign of answering the rein or stopping. She had the bit in her teeth and her neck was set like a bar of iron.

“ _Verruchtes pferd_! What are you doing?!” he shouted at her, still trying in vain to bring her under control. His efforts seemed to have an effect at least, the horse ran even faster.

Four strides from the jeep and the gaping muzzle of the .50 loomed like a cannon before him. Dietrich could see Troy gesturing at him to stop—reluctant to fire? There was no time to even consider pulling his pistol. Feeling the muscles of the mare bunching under him, the captain leaned into the jump in well-trained reflex. They surged upward with great impulsion over the hood and front seat of the jeep. It felt like flying.

As they shot serenely by, Dietrich caught a flashing glimpse of Troy's astonished face, then they were over, and galloping flat out for the exit. The skin on his back crawled, anticipating a burst of gunfire, yet none was forthcoming. 

They emerged from the pass into the deep blue of dusk. The trail descended in steep switchbacks toward the desert below. Sekhmet now proved willing to answer the rein, so Dietrich turned her sharply to the right and put an expanse of solid stone between himself and the Rat Patrol. The mare slowed to a gentle lope, picking out a new way downward with nimble-footed ease.

“Holee,” murmured Hitch, straightening up in his seat. When he had realized the horse wasn't about to stop, he'd ducked down to avoid being brained by a dangling hoof, recovering in time to watch the German and his mount whisk themselves around the rocky corner of the pass. 

“C’mon, get this thing turned around!” Troy dropped into the seat beside Hitch and banged his fist against the metal dashboard. “He’s gonna get away again if we don’t move it!” 

“Right away, Sarge," replied Hitch, cranking the wheel. 

Uncorking the jeep from its tight fit, however, proved one of those tasks easier said than done. While Hitch worked the jeep around, Moffitt and Tully drove up and watched the proceedings with interest. By the time Hitch had the jeep pointed in the right direction and they exited the pass, it was fully dark. The captain was nowhere in sight. Searching with headlights proved fruitless as the rough terrain held no tracks.

At last, the two jeeps parked side by side. 

“Troy, I think we are going to have to give over for now.” said Moffitt. “There's no finding him in this kind of country, especially at night.” 

Troy scowled at him. 

“If we can’t see, neither can Dietrich. Maybe he’ll fall over a cliff and break his neck?” Hitch ventured helpfully.

“Nah, that loco nag of his can probably see in the dark as well as climb walls and fly!” Troy snorted. He drummed his fingers against the side of the jeep in frustration. 

“We were so close! I’m not gonna give up, not yet. We’ve got to find out just what Dietrich is doing out here.”

“No argument, Troy. I’m just as curious as you are about our German friend,” said Moffitt. “What do you propose?”

“First, let’s find a good rat hole and make camp for the night. If Dietrich’s been traveling all day he’s going to have to rest as well. We’ll look for him in the morning. If we can find him on the flat, we’ll catch him easy,” said Troy.

As they drove carefully down the well-beaten trail, Tully looked at Moffitt.

“Are all those Arab horses like Dietrich’s?”

“Many of them, yes,” Moffitt replied.

“Think we’ll catch ‘em?” Tully pursued.

“Perhaps, but I wouldn’t bet _too_ much money on it,” Moffitt said. He smiled. “Not as long as Dietrich keeps to the hills and his horse remains sound.” 

\---

Dietrich awakened when the first light of dawn poked rude fingers at his eyelids. He blinked muzzily at the lightening sky, momentarily disoriented by the unfamiliar surroundings, then his memories of the previous day's events returned. They had traveled well into the night in fear of pursuit until kind fortune had led them to this hollow in the hills. He had managed to stay awake long enough to strip Sekhmet of her tack, pull a blanket over himself, and collapse. After which he'd fallen into a sleep so profound he doubted the Apocalypse itself would have roused him.

The mare’s form bulked large nearby. She lay down to sleep like a reasonable creature and her body formed a fine windbreak.

Even as he watched, the horse raised her head, rolled onto her chest, and yawned. She turned her head to look at him and nickered. Then she heaved herself to her feet with a grunt and shook all over like a dog, raising a cloud of fine dust. 

“ _Guten morgen_. Time to rise, yes? Just a moment and I’ll join you.” Dietrich threw off his blanket and sprang to his feet. Or at least he tried. 

“My God, I'm dying!” he gasped as he doubled over in agony. It was an admission he felt freer to make in the absence of human observers. It suddenly occurred to him that despite his lifelong enjoyment of horseback riding, he'd never accustomed himself to spending entire days in the saddle. Mechanized cavalry did nothing to build the muscle endurance required. Every part in his body was now reminding him of that neglect with savage glee. 

Sekhmet wandered over to watch his struggles to rise with equine concern. By grabbing her mane and locking his knees, Dietrich managed, with much cursing and groaning, to get himself onto his feet. The movements required to attend to the needs of himself and his steed served to loosen his tightened muscles somewhat, enough so that he could, with pained, clumsy effort, tack up the mare and finally climb into the saddle. 

As man and horse continued their downhill journey toward Maradah, Dietrich spoke to Sekhmet.

“Do you know, this mission might be somewhat more challenging than I had foreseen?”

The only sounds in answer were the soft thudding of Sekhmet's hooves and the fancied creak of his sore bones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone who has ridden a good horse knows they have opinions of their own. Mares especially have opinions and a war-mare like Sekhmet could tell Dietrich a few stories, if she could speak. One of those would be, "Never break a charge!" She is used to a rider with a lance and sword for combat. The Riders of Rohan would love her.


	4. Seat of Prayers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Allah protects, but it doesn't hurt to have a little backup.

Master Sergeant Konrad Gunther methodically scanned the sweeping expanse of desert which surrounded Jalu oasis, as he had for the last two days. Those men healthy enough to be ambulatory kept well clear of his shadow. Each new day of Hauptmann Dietrich's absence saw a corresponding worsening of his temper. 

When Lieutenant Erhardt had radioed the sick-camp with the news that his C.O. was on the way with the needed drugs he'd been overjoyed. That reaction had been short-lived once he had pried from a reluctant Max the exact method of Dietrich's transport. 

“Why oh God, why in the name of sanity did he decide to take a horse?! A _horse_ to cross this stinking hell!” Gunther muttered under his breath as he adjusted his binoculars and squinted into the distant heat ripple.

Being the son of a brewer, the image that came to his mind when someone mentioned "horses" was that of the huge Rhineland draft horses that pulled the heavy beer drays. A beast of that sort could never endure such an arduous trek. The weedy local ponies did not seem any more capable to him.

This was the third day since he had been notified to expect his captain. The sturdy master sergeant pushed a stray lock of his silvering blond hair out of his eyes and groaned a little. He was almost out of hope and the mental image of the buzzards making a mea1 of his commander was a grim one. The fact that Dietrich’s death would leave the entire unit in the green hands of Leutnant Ehrhardt did nothing to cheer him. 

Gunther lowered his binoculars to rub at his pale eyes, giving then a moment's respite from the sun glare. Then he raised the glasses once again to peer across the dunes. In the midst of the desert something moved, coming out of the west, shimmering with the late-morning heat. The sergeant uttered a soft curse, unwilling to believe his eyes. Surely it was only an Arab and his mount? Little by little the dark speck drew closer, until Gunther could recognize the rider was wearing the distinctive cap of an Afrika Korps officer, and not a desert robe. 

“Erich!” he shouted, feeling 20 pounds lighter. “Go fetch some water and something decent to eat! Hauptmann Dietrich is coming!” 

The lad dashed off willingly enough and Gunther began to stride out toward the approaching man, unable to stand still and wait. They met perhaps a kilometer out from the camp. Gunther halted and stared as the captain traversed the last distance between them. He was very dusty and had acquired a deeper tan on his face and arms, but otherwise seemed fit. Gunther looked at him as if he was some sort of rare curiosity, remembering to salute only after an obvious pause. Dietrich returned the salute and smiled down at his sergeant. 

“Good morning, Stabsfeldwebel Gunther. I have the drugs. I trust I have arrived in time for them to be of use?” 

“Eh? Yes, the penicillin. Yes sir, you are in good time, but ah…” Gunther trailed off, still staring. 

“Is something wrong, Gunther?” Dietrich asked. 

“Your horse, Captain! Did you travel all that distance on this little beast?” 

The sergeant's voice was filled with disbelief. Had the captain come swooping in on Pegasus he could not have been more surprised. He had always dismissed the local horses as half-starved ponies unfit for heavy work. Much to his further amazement, Dietrich laughed softly in answer to his question. 

“For your information, Staff Sergeant, this "little beast" carried me the entire distance. She also outfoxed the Rat Patrol not once, but twice. Not bad for a little horse, eh?”

The captain inspected the camp with a practiced eye as they approached at an easy walk. "It looks good, Gunther; you have done well. Do you have some water? Both Sekhmet and I could do with a drink.”

As Gunther took the water from a waiting soldier, Dietrich patted the mare’s dusty neck and said casually.

“Well that's one-half of our journey done.”

Gunther froze in his tracks. 

“Half, sir?” he queried in a toneless voice. He had the sinking feeling his relief was going to be extremely short-lived. 

\---

Three days later found many of the camp’s inhabitants well on the road to recovery, the drug having met and exceeded the camp doctor's expectations. It also found Hauptmann Hans Dietrich preparing for his return trek with typical efficiency and calm. 

Sekhmet proved to be in fine fettle, to all appearances undamaged by her long journey. The fact that he had been saddlesore for the last two days did nothing to dampen her rider's enthusiasm, much to Gunther's dismay. He assisted his captain readily, with an air of outward cheerfulness. Dietrich knew his sergeant's moods well enough to know that the man was worrying on his behalf and wisely left him alone. 

While Dietrich finished grooming his mount, Gunther sat on an empty fuel barrel and checked his commander’s bridle and saddle over for worn spots. This was more to occupy his hands and mind than because the equipment needed it. As he handled the bridle, his fingers found a bit of something hard that was not a buckle. On closer inspection, the object proved to be a stamped medal, painted dull black to prevent it from shining. With care, the sergeant unpinned it and examined it at closer range, turning it over to check both sides. He began to laugh, softly at first, then louder in spite of his best efforts to keep the noise down.

Dietrich glanced at him curiously, his attention caught by the genuine merriment.

“What is so amusing, Gunther?” he asked as he approached.

Gunther quickly composed himself to answer.

“Herr Hauptmann, I beg your pardon, but I never knew you were a fellow Catholic.”

He wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand. 

Dietrich gave him a puzzled look.

“But I'm not. Catholic, that is. I'm a Lutheran. Whatever gave you that idea?” 

Wordlessly, the older man dropped the bit of metal into the captain's hand. 

“What is this?” Dietrich asked as he peered at it, turning it over several times to examine it closely.

“A little image of a bearded man carrying a child across a stream?”

“I found it fastened to the headstall of your horse’s bridle. The man is Saint Christopher, who carried the Christ child on his back across a raging river. He is the patron saint and protector of travelers,” said Gunther. “There is writing on the back as well.”

Dietrich turned the medal over and read the tiny, stamped English inscription:

_I am a Catholic. In case of an accident, notify a priest._

“What in the world?!”

“Someone wasn’t taking any chances on your safety.” 

The master sergeant retrieved the medal and carefully re-pinned it in its original place, with a half-apologetic smile at Dietrich.

“It can't hurt, and now I feel better.” 

Dietrich claimed the bridle without comment and strode off to his horse.

_You **would** cover all possibilities, MacLlyr! _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MacLlyr is Irish and nominally Catholic. She'd tell you she's quite lapsed in her faith, but some things remain, including handing out Saint Christoper medals to captains with more bravery than common sense. The Saint Christopher legend is very cool, actually, and there is good reason he is on little icons to protect travelers. You can find it here: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Saint_Christopher


	5. Thou Shalt Carry My Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Man and horse versus machines, plus that one ineffable factor, heart.

The late afternoon sun beat down on them from the west, making the rolling sands quiver with heat. Twenty kilometers to Qasr al Burayqah. 

Dietrich sat in a weary slump, the reins loose. He was half asleep with fatigue, trusting to Sekhmet's sense of direction to keep them on course. She knew they were nearly home. Tired as she was, her long-striding walk had a bit more spring in it. Her rider was surprised the horse had any ‘spring’ left at all, considering the harrowing five days they had spent in the desert.

MacLlyr had been right with respect to the tribes of the Libyan interior... they fiercely defended ownership of their tribal wells. He had no difficulties on the trip out, but word had spread of the outlander who had trespassed on their territory and he had found parties of hostile locals at several of the wells waiting for him on the return leg of his journey.

MacLlyr had warned him not to fight with any Bedouin he met, cautioning that the death of a tribesman meant a prolonged blood feud, a complication his company did not need. So he had fled after firing over their heads to hold them back. Sekhmet had outrun them all, seemingly tireless.

The last party of pursuers had broken off to wave and shout blessings on him and his horse.

"Let us kiss the feet of your mare!"

This convinced Dietrich that anyone who lived in the desert for too long went mad. He had acquired a deep bullet crease in his upper left arm as a souvenir, which was now bandaged with a ragged strip torn from his undershirt. The wound ached, but he had neither the time nor supplies to dress it properly.

As if that adventure had not been enough, the two of them had earlier spent a miserable three days sheltering in the hills while they waited out a sandstorm. The combination of events had gained the captain a deeper understanding of the reasons behind the Bedouin’s love of their horses.

 _Still_ , Dietrich thought, _I do not think I would keep her in my tent_. He smiled to himself at the mental picture of Sekhmet sleeping dog-like at the foot of his cot, then shook his head in an attempt to stay awake.

 _It will not do to fall asleep when I am almost home_ , he told himself sternly. He stretched in the stirrups, sinking back with a sigh. Now that the trip was nearly over, the muscles in his legs finally showed signs of hardening to the work of spending days in the saddle. 

The mare's hooves grated on a harder surface than that of semi-soft sand. It was what passed for a road in those parts of the country: the main coastal road which intersected Qasr al Burayqah. The horse stepped out easier, now that her energies were no longer required to pull her feet out of the sand. They traveled faster as a result and Dietrich began to recognize familiar landmarks as they hit the territory of the town's further perimeters. As they passed the burned out hulk of a halftrack, he estimated they had perhaps twelve more kilometers to go. 

\---

“Hey, Sarge!” Hitch shouted over the engine noise to Troy, who had been catnapping in his seat.

The younger man brought the jeep to a halt on a slight rise in the road.

“Isn't that Dietrich about a mile ahead on that little horse of his?”

Troy shaded his eyes with a hand and squinted up the road, then resorted to his binoculars. He barked a short laugh.

“I don't believe it! We've been combing the desert for the better part of a week with no luck, and now that Wilson has finally given us a new assignment, we find him!”

Moffitt and Tully pulled up in time to hear this part of the conversation and the Englishman joined in. 

“Our new mission isn't that urgent, Troy. If you wish, we could delay a bit to clear up our unfinished business.” 

“If he's only just now getting back, I wonder where he's been hiding all this time,” Tully said, fishing out a fresh matchstick with a thoughtful expression.

“Let's go ask him!” Troy grinned.

Hitch gunned the jeep ahead with a gleeful shout. Troy braced himself against the machine’s antics as they accelerated over the ruts and potholes, keeping his eyes fixed on the distant figure of Dietrich. The German officer was as yet unaware of their pursuit, the road was straight, and relatively hard and smooth. 

_No horse can outrun a jeep for long on the flat_ , Troy thought to himself. _There's no place to hide. This time we have him cold!_

\---

Sekhmet heard the distinctive noise of the jeep’s engines before Dietrich, whinnying an alarm and moving into a fast canter. The captain twitched upright in sudden alertness, immediately began looking about for hostile tribesmen, and spotted the all-too-familiar jeeps roaring up the road toward them. His heart sank as he realized their poor tactical position. They were not going to make it after all. He bowed his head at the sudden stab of pain and helpless fury that coursed through him. After all they'd been through, this was the cruelest stroke of fate! 

The mare lengthened her stride and yanked on the bridle, asking for more rein. Dietrich was surprised. After all those weary miles, she was still game, still willing to run. It came to him then that Sekhmet would run till her heart burst if he allowed it. She had her pride after all. 

He swallowed with difficulty past the strange tightness in his throat and closed his hands on the reins, seeking to pull her down to a slower gait. The sound of the oncoming jeeps grew louder.

Sekhmet laid her ears back angrily and fought him for her head, kicking up gouts of dust as she half-bucked. 

“You stubborn child...!” Dietrich shouted as he sought to control her. “Why do you want to throw away your life?!” 

There was nothing left with which he could fight. His Luger was empty and the only blade he had was a small knife. He was weary, and her next tug nearly unseated him, pulling his upper body forward onto her sweaty neck. Her bright red hide had turned the color of dark mahogany. Sighing, the captain relented, letting the reins slide through his fingers. Giving a quick pull, Sekhmet ripped them free entirely, stretched her neck out, and shifted into a gallop. 

“You will die, you know. You can't outrun their infernal machines, no matter how brave you are,” he said toward her backswept ears. The howl of the wind carried his words away.

Dietrich paused for a moment and continued the one-sided conversation with his runaway mare.

“Perhaps that is not the point.” 

Glancing hastily over his shoulder at the Rat Patrol, he felt an unaccountable rush of excitement. If he refused to halt, Troy would have to try and shoot him. The town was 10 kilometers and closing. The race was definitely on. Dietrich smiled and let his frustration drop away. 

“I have had quite enough of the Rat Patrol of late. Why not try our best, one last time? We may die, but at least we can die well!” 

Oddly enough, he didn't feel the least regret once he had made his decision. 

Now that he was actively helping, they accelerated rapidly, the wind of their speed tearing at his shirt and burning in his eyes. There had been no time to lower his goggles and his eyes teared freely in the wind-blast. He crouched forward in the saddle, jockey-fashion, and groped blindly after the loose reins. 

Failing to recover them, he grasped handfuls of the tossing black mane and hung on for dear life. It seemed to him Sekhmet had never run so fast before, but then he had never tried her limits on firm, level ground. 

They were hurtling at great speed straight down the road toward Qasr al Burayqah, the mare’s hooves raising a rapid, hollow drumming on the hard surface of the road. The sound matched his heartbeat. Through the roar of the wind he could dimly hear the jeeps of the Patrol in all-out pursuit. 

Hitch stared at the twitching needle of the speedometer. 

“That's one damn fast horse!” he shouted at Troy.

The jeeps had finally closed the distance between themselves and the hard-running horse, only to discover they could not flank Dietrich and his steed without running off the narrow road into the soft sand of the shoulders. Dietrich did not appear to be obliging enough to just stop and surrender, nor was he about to pull off to one side and let them by. He galloped straight up the middle, blocking their way. 

Troy pulled the rifle from its boot at the side of the jeep and reviewed his options. At this range the .50 bolted to the jeep would have made hamburger of man and beast, so that was out. Hitting them with the jeep would have been just as bad, if not worse. The rifle, on the other hand, would hurt the horse, but not kill it cleanly, especially since the highest probability was of hitting the animal’s hindquarters. Troy didn't think that was such a good idea, either. That left him trying to wing a man perched on a fast-moving target. 

He wanted the captain alive, yet he didn't like the way the odds were beginning to stack up for the opposite result. Resolutely, he lifted the rifle to his eyes and peered through the sights, steadying himself against the jeep’s bouncing shimmy. 

Dietrich heard the nasty whine of a bullet as it sang past his head, the flat crack of the rifle following on the instant. Troy was an excellent shot, the first round being merely a warning: surrender now, or else. 

He raised his head and squinted up the road through watery eyes. They were pounding up a gentle rise, the town was nowhere in sight.

 _We're too far_ , he thought as they galloped. _A little too far, a little too late_.

A second shot ventilated his already ragged right sleeve. Dietrich smiled to himself; he doubted that Troy had intended to miss with that one, but the movements of his mount made his position erratic and difficult to estimate. The next bullet could very well cripple—or kill at random. He made no effort to stop Sekhmet. The land seemed to flow by slow motion, his time sense distorted by the severe danger. 

They burst over the hilltop in a rush of dust, the jeeps right on their heels, and suddenly found themselves in a crowd of men and horses. They scattered momentarily as Dietrich and Sekhmet charged among them. 

With shouts and cheers, the loosely knit gang surged around them, waving rifles and swords. A number of the robed riders closed in behind the captain, effectively cutting off the Rat Patrol. 

_What is this?_ Dietrich thought as Sekhmet checked her gallop.


	6. All the Treasures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dietrich hits the town. He would like to be awake enough to enjoy the experience.

As he attempted to collect his wits, a rider on a fine black stallion drew near alongside and seized the dangling reins. Sekhmet slowed further and trotted quietly beside the black, leaving Dietrich to marvel at her calm acceptance of handling by a stranger. He was about to attempt to reclaim the reins and wondering if it was safe to do so, when the robed rider looked directly at him. His eyes were a very European pale grey in color. 

His new companion spoke up in English. 

“Well met, Hans Dietrich.”

He sat up and stared at the speaker.

“Don’t you recognize me?” The lightly accented voice was tinged with amusement, the pale eyes sparkling. The speaker swept off his headcloth and wrappings to reveal a delicate face with fire-colored hair. 

Dietrich looked blankly at the woman until recognition finally penetrated his tired mind. 

“Shannon MacLlyr!” No wonder the mare had been so calm. It was her own colt who cantered beside her and her old mistress who had caught her reins. Judging from his recent hasty observations it appeared that a goodly number of the town’s adults had turned out to welcome him and provide an honor guard.

 _Welcome me?!_ Dietrich shook his head in confusion. _What is happening here? I am an outsider; an invader to these people! Why were they waiting for me? What is the meaning of this?_

His head ached, his arm throbbed in counterpoint. Now that the terrific adrenaline high from the race was beginning to subside, the strain of the weary miles began to settle on him, soft and inexorable as snowfall. His bones felt heavy, as if they had been transmuted to iron, or lead. The group had slowed to an easy walk, allowing Sekhmet to catch her wind and cool out. Her hide was sweat-soaked and streaked with foam and dust, but her eyes were bright and alert. She walked easily, with no sign of distress or lameness. 

Dietrich kicked his feet free of the stirrups and settled into a somewhat more comfortable position in the saddle. Of the Rat Patrol, he saw no sign. MacLlyr passed him her water bottle. He took a swallow, letting a small amount trickle down his throat and held the rest in his mouth, where it eased the dry membranes.

He traveled in the center of his milling escort—an eye of calm amidst the rush and bustle of lively horses and riders. No one troubled him. Indeed, the only expressions he noticed were looks of pleasure and admiration. Those who caught his eye gave him gestures of respect. This was a very strange state of affairs indeed. Finally unable to contain his curiosity any longer, he turned to query MacLlyr, then had to grab the pommel of the saddle to keep from falling.

“Gently, Hans,” she said quietly. “You've had quite an adventure and look as though you could do with a bit of rest. Endure a little longer, we are almost home.” 

“Home?” he managed. His voice sounded strange in his own ears. “How… how did you know? How did they know…?” He carefully made an inclusive gesture with one hand as he struggled to articulate his jumble of questions. 

Shannon laughed softly. 

“News travels swiftly in the desert, my friend, even without the wireless. Word spread quickly of the outlander with the _asil_ mare who was crossing the desert alone. That you completed your journey meant Allah looked on you kindly. You took no lives in your travels, which is also significant. You came from our town and the town takes honor of you for your deeds, so the people rode out to ease your path when they heard from their desert kin that you were returning. Simple, yes?” 

“No,” Dietrich shook his head gently as he rolled the information about in his weary mind. “Nothing is simple at all. You shall have to explain it to me again at length. Later. After I have rested and can think without difficulty.” 

“I shall be glad to explain it in as much detail as you wish,” said MacLlyr cheerfully. “Ah, here we are at last.” She halted her stallion in the main plaza of the town. 

Dietrich dismounted with care and watched as eager youngsters came up to lead their horses away. People ran about in swirls and eddies of seemingly random activity, but out of that mild chaos came seats to sit on, food, drinkables, lights, and all of the other fixings of a traditional celebration.

Shannon sat him down and handed over a glass of amber-colored liquid and two white pills. She took a seat beside him and began carefully removing the dust encrusted bandage on his arm. A child arrived bearing a basin of water, clean cloths, and similar oddments.

Dietrich frowned absently at both pills and glass. 

“Aspirin. Good for your pains.” She worked carefully at the stiff cloth, felt him wince as the bandage came away. 

“1 suggest you take it. In the glass is Irish whiskey, water, and honey. Good for any ills the aspirin may miss.” 

“That hardly sounds like _medicine_ , Doctor.”

“Don't be silly. Tis' a God-given anodyne, just like any other drug.” Here the Irishwoman ruined the scholarly effect by grinning at him. 

Dietrich met her eyes, which were filled with life and merriment. His expression relaxed and he assayed a smile in return. His face felt stiff and strange at the long-neglected exercise. The aspirin went down easily enough, as did the contents of the glass. MacLlyr had been right, it did help the pain in his arm. It also combined with his physical and mental weariness to make him feel as if the world around him had become blurred and unreal around the edges. 

Soft ringing sounded in his ears, not unpleasant. The party swirled on around him, merry under the stars. They brought Sekhmet back to him, groomed clean and covered with a light blanket. Delicate strawflowers had been woven through her black mane. 

She stood a little behind him, one hind hoof relaxed under her body, half-dozing. Someone had provided him with a plate of food, from which he ate without tasting. Now and again townsfolk would approach him to touch his shoulder, his face. They departed with blessings murmured in Arabic or French. The touches startled him at first, then at last he grew accustomed to the strangeness and sat quietly, now and again answering an elder's query from his store of Arabic. 

During a lull, Dietrich glanced down and noticed the bandage on his arm was now clean and not dirty gray. He tried to remember precisely when MacLlyr had finished dressing his injury when he noticed the latest face hovering in front of him was a familiar me. It took a few moments, but finally his memory gave up the name that went with the face and with it a host of half-forgotten worries.

“Leutnant Erhardt!” 

“Herr Hauptmann, I could hardly believe it when they told me you were back, alive and safe! After all this time I truly feared you were dead.” The lieutenant looked at him in relieved joy, his green eyes suspiciously bright.

Ehrhardt straightened up into an attitude of attention, saluted, and tried in vain to rake the stubborn spikes of hair into something like neatness.

“Sir. The camp is all in order. The men are well. The vehicles are in working order. We were not attacked in your absence.” 

“This is wonderful. I should go away more often,” Dietrich said softly.

Max gazed at him in mild confusion.

Dietrich spoke in a stronger voice.

“Very good, Max, well done.” The lieutenant brightened visibly. "Any word from Gunther?” 

“Oh! Yes, sir. The men are continuing to recover well, he says. He thinks they should be able to join us in a week.” Erhardt jumped up in haste.

“I beg your pardon sir, but I really should inform the men of your safe return.” The reminder of Gunther waiting for news filled the young man with urgency. For the second time that evening, Dietrich smiled with genuine warmth.

“Yes, I suppose if you wish to survive your next meeting with Master Sergeant Gunther, you had best radio him at once and give him a brief update.” An afterthought made him add. “Max, one important thing: the Allied Rat Patrol followed me to the outskirts of the town. I believe they are still in the area. Place the camp on alert until further notice. Exercise caution, yes?”

Dietrich made a shooing motion at Max.

“Go on. I should be in camp by morning.” The lieutenant promptly vanished after tossing him a quick salute.

\---

Sergeant Troy worked his way carefully through the celebrating crowd, followed by Moffitt and the rest of the Patrol. The people of the town made way for them, following their progress with curious eyes. 

From behind his back, Moffitt called.

“Remember Troy, this is a neutral town. We shouldn't try anything too obviously hostile. Particularly when Dietrich is their guest of honor.” 

“I'll bear that in mind,” Troy growled. The sergeant pushed his way through the press with characteristic obstinacy, emerging at last into the clear space surrounding the object of his search: Dietrich.

The German officer sat among a group of the town elders. Close behind, his mare was occupied in daintily picking over the leftovers on an abandoned plate. Ignoring the stares of the townsfolk, Troy strode forward until he stood directly before the captain. He sensed the rest of his men move up to cover his back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Assuming Dietrich lives long enough, he will learn about long-distance trail competitions. I'm not sure he'd want to try any, since the experience just isn't the same without hostile encounters and people shooting at you.


	7. The Horse You Rode in On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Safe in the town, the Captain and the Rat Patrol try to sort themselves out.

Troy had a few unobserved moments in which to study his antagonist at close range. Dietrich sat upright, but his posture was quite a bit more relaxed than his regular stiff formality. He seemed exhausted, holding himself awake by an effort of will. His hat was missing, uncombed hair insisted on trying to hang in his eyes, and both his body and uniform bore the marks of a long, arduous journey.

The only item on him at the moment that was truly clean was a white dressing which stood out starkly against his upper arm. His face was covered with a layer of desert dust striped with tracks left by tears and sweat.

At Troy's approach, all conversation halted, which made the captain aware he had company. He turned and looked directly at Troy, stiffening slightly at the sight of the entire Rat Patrol before him.

 _Why am I surprised to see them here? It is typical of them not to give up the hunt over such a trivial thing as being heavily outnumbered_.

His travel-worn mind was not eager to shift into combat mode. His senses and reflexes felt dull and fuzzy, hardly equal to the task of taking on the relatively fresh Patrol. Still, he forced his thoughts into order.

“Good evening, Sergeant Troy.”

Or at least that was what tried he _tried_ to say. What came out was an unintelligible hybrid cross of English, Arabic, and German. 

Dietrich hastily closed his mouth in utter surprise.

 _I must be more than a little drunk_ , he decided. _I had best take this slowly_. 

“Good evening, Sergeant Troy. I was wondering where you had gone after our little race.” _Now **that** sounded better_!

“All right, Captain," said Troy in a no-nonsense tone. “We’ve been trailing you for days out there, so what’s the secret?" His blue eyes gleamed sharply.

“Secret, Sergeant Troy?” Dietrich queried, mystified. “To what are you referring?”

“Don’t play cute games with me, Captain! You left here eleven days ago on some sort of important mission, and now you're gonna tell me what it was.” The unspoken “or else” hung in the cool evening air like the quicksilver glitter of a half-hidden knife.

Ordinarily, given his vulnerable position, such an open threat from his erstwhile nemesis would have caused him a rush of both anger and fear. In his present, mercifully blurry condition, he felt only minor pique and a large dose of confusion. 

_Something has certainly put a bug, as they say, in Troy's ear, and why was the Sergeant going on about a “secret mission” or some such nonsense? All I have done was to…_

“Ah. You must mean the reason for my journey across the desert!” Dietrich felt pleased at his successful deduction. At Troy's tight nod, he decided to continue. Since it was obvious the Rat Patrol had not been able to discover his hidden, invalid men, he felt no compunction about telling the American the true reason behind his seemingly cryptic actions.

“The explanation is actually quite simple, Sergeant. You see, somewhere out there.” His gesture indicated the indigo-drowned desert. “Is a camp of soldiers who were in desperate need of penicillin to combat an infectious disease. I chose to deliver the drug to them myself. I thought it would be safer.”

Troy stared at him, and said nothing.

Behind Troy, Dietrich could see the rest of the group. Their expressions ranged from Tully's approving appraisal of his horse and Hitchcock’s wise half-grin to Moffitt’s guarded assessment of his statement.

Taking in a steadying breath, the captain went on to give a fairly detailed recounting of his travels, being careful to edit out any references as to the location of his men.

“Then, the people of this town surrounded me and brought me here and I lost sight of you until now, Sergeant. The journey was an interesting experience. I do not think I would have survived without this one.”

He drew the mare gently forward by her halter rope and rubbed her velvet nose.

“Her name is Sekhmet.”

She regarded the Rat Patrol with pricked ears and curious eyes.

“That’s a nice little horse you have there, Captain,” said Tully. The Kentuckian rambled up to pat Sekhmet's arched neck and run knowing hands down her legs.

“No heat, no lameness. Good feet, tight legs, an' lots of flat bone.” His voice held approval. “Don't suppose you'd wanna sell her?”

“Tully!”

“Sorry, Sarge.” Tully flashed Troy a most unrepentant grin. “I was just askin'.”

“We didn't come out here to collect horses for the Derby!” Troy glowered at the private, then turned the force of his displeasure on Dietrich.

“We’re here to get the straight dope on your mission, Captain. And I mean to get it, one way or another.”

“Perhaps he's telling the truth, Troy,” offered Moffitt.

“C’mon Moffitt! That song and dance about delivering drugs wouldn’t fool anyone. He must've been carrying secret documents or the like, why else go to all that trouble?”

Dietrich answered with slow calm.

“If it is the truth you want, Sergeant Troy, you already have it.”

"Well, as I live and breathe! If it isn't Doctor Jack Moffitt!"

A feminine voice interrupted, shattering the growing tension. MacLlyr had stepped from the crowd near Dietrich's left side. She had jogged up at double-time when she heard the American- and German-accented voices joined in conversation drifting through the throng of people. The lone British voice had sounded familiar and sure enough, the owner of the voice had turned out to be an old colleague.

Moffitt regarded MacLlyr with identical surprise.

“Doctor Shannon! Whatever are you doing out here, old girl? 1 thought you were tucked away safe in Cairo, penning your historical maps and all that?”

Moffitt reached out to grasp her hand in greeting. Both Dietrich and Troy blinked at this byplay. The captain found his voice first.

“You know each other?”

“But of course!” She smiled at him.

“Jack and I go way back—he went to Cambridge and I went to Oxford. We published rival papers in the _British Archaeology Journal!_ ”

“And you're still talking to each other?” asked Hitch, shaking his head with a grin. 

MacLlyr laughed as she answered.

“Well, certainly! Half the fun is in the argument, don't you know? As to Cairo,” she picked up on Moffitt’s earlier question. “I left there over a year ago. You know I go where I please. Neutral citizen and all that. Oh, I almost forgot! I had a map I made for you, but since I hadn't seen you for months, I loaned it to the Captain.”

“You what?” rumbled Troy.

"The good Doctor is correct,” Dietrich cut in politely. “I had all but forgotten it myself. You seem to feel that I possessed important papers, Sergeant Troy, but this is the only paper I carried throughout my entire journey. You may now give it to Sergeant Moffitt if you wish, with my complements.”

He reached inside his shirt, rummaged about for a bit, then withdrew a thick wad of paper which he gravely offered to Troy.

Troy took the crinkly packet and looked at the captain narrowly. It wasn’t like Dietrich to easily surrender anything important. He unfolded the map, dislodging a quantity of fine sand from its creases as he did so. Moffitt came up to peer over his shoulder as Troy scowled down at the mottled page.

“This is it? This is all you carried on your whole trip?!” He glared at the German in disbelief. 

Dietrich returned the stare with open innocence.

 _Is Troy being deliberately obtuse today_? he wondered. _Or am I so tired and drunk that I cannot state my case clearly?_

“Sergeant, this is truly the only paper I brought with me. Everything else was either supplies for the journey or drugs for the sick men. A horse is not a truck, there was a limit to what I could bring. My mission was strictly one-sided: deliver the drugs and save lives.” He hesitated a moment, then when he saw that Troy was still reluctant to believe him, he added. “I give you my word, Sergeant Troy. I am telling you the entire truth. I carried nothing of tactical importance, unless you wish to include the medicine.”

As Troy let that statement filter through his mind, he looked at the map in his hands. The paper was heavily blotched with rusty stains and the ink had run in many places, making an interesting watercolor effect and all but ruining the map's legibility. There were no notations indicating the placement of German units or camps. He looked over the top of the map at Dietrich.

“Y’know, Captain, this map's hardly readable.” He tipped the paper down to show Dietrich the marred surface.

“Yes, well, that is my fault, I am afraid. I was shot a day ago by unfriendly tribesmen as I traveled. I had to consult the map in haste, and there was no time to bind my wound.” He indicated his arm.

“It seems the ink was not exactly waterproof.”

Troy regarded the alleged injury. If Dietrich was telling the truth, then the wound would be fairly fresh. Such evidence would prove his story beyond a doubt. The American was almost convinced; the captain had always been a man of his word.

Finally, Troy asked quietly.

“Mind if I have a look at this, Captain?” He gestured at Dietrich's arm. “Sometimes they get nasty without sulfa.”

For an instant, Dietrich thought that perhaps Troy intended to do him a mischief, then his normal intelligence reasserted itself and he thrust the thought aside. If the sergeant had wanted to cause him harm, he would have done so long ago. Troy was wonderfully direct that way. 

The captain raised his shoulders in a slight shrug.

“Doctor MacLlyr has already attended to it, Sergeant, but you may examine it yourself if you wish.”

With an intent expression, Troy thrust the map into his shirt, then began to unwind the bandage. He soon found himself looking at a day-old bullet wound. The angry redness around the injury indicated some residual infection, despite its recent cleaning. Dietrich, as usual, had been truthful. Troy grunted softly. 

“I was afraid of that. See? It's going a little bad inside.” Over his shoulder he called. 

“Moffitt, you got some sulfa on you?”

At his request, Moffitt pulled from a pocket a small tin of the drug and passed it to him. Troy pried off the lid and sifted a good quantity into wound, then rewrapped it carefully. Throughout the entire procedure, the captain sat quietly, eyes closed. 

While he worked on the captain's arm, Troy took a good measure of the man’s substance. What he felt surprised him. Dietrich had always been rather lean, but now he was gaunt. Under the well-worn khaki clothing, Troy could feel the sharp bones clearly. That sort of dryness came only as a consequence of days of short rations and equally short water. The desert had drawn out all excess moisture, fat, and softness, leaving in its wake only the resistant bone, muscle, and sinew.

Dietrich seemed to wake up a bit, raised his head, and met Troy's stare. His brown eyes held weariness, but no trace of defeat. A strange sense of wonder slowly crept into the American's heart.

“You really _were_ out there all this time. You actually crossed the desert on horseback. Alone!”

“One does what one must, Sergeant Troy. They were dying—I could save them perhaps if I tried. So I did. Do you understand?” 

Troy let out a pent-up sigh before answering.

“Yeah, I suppose I do, Captain. If they had been my men, I guess I might've done something just as crazy… but I sure as heck wouldn’t have charged off on a horse!”

His mouth crooked in a smile, Troy gestured to his men. 

“All right, guys, let's get outta here."

As the Patrol began to collectively move off, a sudden thought dawned in Dietrich's mind.

“Sergeant Troy, you and your men did not really spend all this time searching the desert for me, did you?”

The American halted and stared at the captain wordlessly. Dietrich the interpreted the silence correctly.

“You did. For eleven days you drove about the desert. You destroyed none of our supplies because there was nothing out there to destroy. No wonder everything in my camp here was so peaceful!”

Deep down inside his weary self, Hans Dietrich felt a strange pressure grow as he thought over the Rat Patrol's much-frustrated mission. They had stubbornly sought his capture in quest of secrets which turned out to be mythical. Worse still, their fruitless efforts had kept them safely out of the way of the Afrika Korps, and his command specifically, for days. They had not even managed to take him prisoner!

The more he thought about everything, the greater the pressure grew, until at last it escaped in the form of laughter. He tried to stifle it, but that made him sound as if he was strangling. He put his hands over his mouth, but that was no help either. 

The more he thought about it the funnier it became; the hilarity enhanced by the potent combination of alcohol and exhaustion. The few inhibitions he had left rapidly evaporated. Finally Dietrich gave up all pretense of resistance, propped his head in his hands, and laughed out loud. It felt very good.

Troy and his men goggled at the sight of the proper and formal Captain enjoying a laughing fit at their expense.

“Geeze, Sarge,” murmured Hitch. “What’s got into him?"

Troy flung an arm around his driver, turned him about, and began marching stiffly away in the direction of their hidden jeeps.

“C'mon, we're leavin'.” The sergeant's expression was thunderous. 

Tully risked a backward glance in time to see a still-laughing Dietrich wiping tears from his eyes.

“Perhaps he's got a case of the heat stroke raptures, or something?”

“No, my good man,” said Moffitt. “I'm afraid Dietrich is indulging because he's well and truly foxed us this time, and without really meaning to, I might add.” The Englishman smiled cheekily at Troy, deliberately risking a poke in the snoot.

Troy glared at him poisonously for a few seconds, then his expression cleared and he grinned back in turn.

“Hell, I'll admit he won this round fair an’ square. This time.”

The captain’s merriment kept them company as they marched away into the cool night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would not recommend a shot of Irish whiskey on top of being dead tired as a way to advance diplomatic negotiations, but then again, the Captain has earned it.

**Author's Note:**

> Completed the process of OCR scanning this old tale of mine, doing a light edit, and posting it up in chapters. I'm sure I'll be fixing this forever, OCR scanning just has a hard time with old Courier typewriter fonts and I have never seen so many Greek symbols used in place of normal text in my life.  
> Edited to add illustrations from the old 'zine version to chapters 3,4, and 5.


End file.
